Storm
by auri mynonys
Summary: AU, Post-ROTK. Eowyn is caught in a storm and is forced to stay in Orthanc, where she confronts a demon from her past... Grima/Eowyn. Eowyn's POV.
1. Chapter 1

Dark clouds were brewing overhead. I could see them looming ominously as I urged my horse to move faster. It had been raining hard at Helm's Deep, and I was soaking already; should more rain come, I would undoubtedly catch a chill. To suffer from such an illness could potentially be fatal, alone as I was and riding in the midst of abandoned country. However, I had many miles to travel before I would reach my destination, and I knew that no matter how hard I rode, the rain would never wait for me.

My husband Faramir was camping on the edges of Fangorn Forest with a large party of his Ithilien Rangers. They were searching for one of their number, the youngest, whose name was Angaran. He had been sent on a scouting mission and had disappeared, his trail leading far into the land of Rohan. He never returned, much to the chagrin of Faramir. Angaran's ailing mother had placed the boy in Faramir's charge when he was very young, and Faramir saw Angaran in a sort of fatherly way. Knowing Angaran could be in danger had caused him great distress, and nothing I had said or done had soothed him.

Secretly, in my heart, I was not displeased that Faramir was to travel towards my home country. It had been overlong since I had been permitted to ride freely through the plains of my homeland, and, trapped as I often was inside the walls of Minas Tirith, I desired the vast, empty expanses that Rohan offered. When Faramir had told me of his intention to depart, I begged to ride with him. At first he flatly refused. He could not afford to bring me along with him; I would only be a burden; I could potentially find myself in serious danger. I persisted, and at last Faramir relented.

His riders often grumbled that I should not be with them, but it was all in good humor, for Faramir's riders loved me overmuch and were apt to spoil me. They played silly tricks to impress me and often asked with deep awe of my battle with the Witch King and the illness that soon befell me after. I soon grew weary of repeating the story each night, but they were good listeners, and I cannot deny that I appreciated having such an attentive audience.

In Gondor, when Faramir was gone, many of the women sneered down on me and spoke of my achievements as though they were _indecent._ "Men's work," they would say, "And woman's folly." They often said such things of me; they believed me inferior because of my Rohirric lineage and my inability to perform any of the usual domestic tasks. I cannot cook or embroider or draw; I am fine enough at dancing, but not elegant or graceful on my feet. My singing voice is fair enough, but deeper and, according to most standards, unfeminine. As far as Gondorian society was concerned, I had nothing worth offering their sacred Steward. Sometimes I felt that way myself.

I never revealed my feelings to Faramir, of course. He was not at home often enough for me to speak to him deeply and in earnest about anything. When he was with me, we spent our too brief times together celebrating and enjoying, taking nothing seriously. But the brevity of our life together had grown tedious, and I longed for something solid and strong, something deep and rich that I knew could withstand the trials of all lifetimes - something I had thought I had experienced with Faramir towards the ending of the War of the Ring. The strong love I had so cherished between Faramir and I seemed to have faded to a certain fondness, as of friends; and I grew weary of pretending that it was otherwise.

I had hoped to have chance to speak to him of my feelings, in the hopes that he might soothe my fears, but travel had proved rough and tiring, and when at last we retired to our tent he was soon asleep. I had not the heart to speak to him of such matters when his own heart was so heavy with other things. He fretted so for Angaran, and I often felt a wave of sympathy for his pain.

Yet as the weeks had passed I soon felt as though I truly were an extra burden to the group. I was not nearly as swift and silent as they in my skirts, and I had never been trained to move as they did through the shadows of trees and cloud, scouting and finding marks that would lead them to their prey. I was not capable of these things and there was not time to teach me. Instead, I spoke to Faramir one night of visiting a few of the places dearest to my heart in Rohan, and then returning to meet him as swiftly as I would. He was more easily persuaded in this, but grew angry when I insisted that I ride alone. "Times are still dangerous, Éowyn," he had warned me. "I will not see you come to harm, with the blame at my hands."

"And I would not burden you further," I said. "You can spare no men now; you have said so yourself for many nights past. Have you forgotten that your wife defeated the Witch King himself and lived to tell the tale? You need not fear for me."

He would have argued more, but he was exhausted and frustrated. I think, too, that he knew I could defend myself if the need arose, though I doubted it would. Rohan was kept clear of the few remaining beats of Sauron. My brother saw expertly to his protection. None who lived in Rohan had need to fear for their lives.

I parted ways with Faramir and rode for Edoras, there to meet my brother and his new wife, Lothiriel. I was greeted with great joy and welcomed with a magnificent feast. I told Éomer of life in Gondor when he asked, and brought him news of King Elessar and his Elven bride, Arwen. I spoke a little of my life with Faramir but was careful not to mention my dissatisfaction with my lot. Éomer had worried overmuch for me since I was but a girl, and I knew it pleased him to see me so settled in life.

I stayed with him a week, and then departed again. There were tears at our parting and my brother's promise that he would visit me in Minas Tirith soon, and then I was on my way. Éomer had offered to send a small contingent of Riders with me to see me on my way, but I politely declined, and he knew better than to argue with me. I had made plans for the rest of my travels, and to bring along even a small number of Riders would ruin my chance for solitude.

Ever since the ending of the War of the Ring, I had had the most morbid desire to return to Helm's Deep, the site of Rohan's strongest victory in years. Even more important, Helm's Deep had seen the defeat of Saruman the White - Saruman, and his most prominent and dangerous servant, Gríma called Wormtongue.

Gríma was a plague upon my memory; yet he was as a shadow to the light - seemingly necessary for me to be whole. It had always been thus, even when I had been a mere girl. Gríma, a dark outcast despised by all but my uncle and myself, had been a friend, sharing with me interests unknown to girl-children like myself. Yet there was something strange and foreboding about him – something black and hidden within his nature that I had always sensed beneath the surface. Yet I trusted to him, as did my uncle, and I forced my feelings aside.

But when I reached womanhood, that black stain upon his soul forced its way out, in the form of an aching, painful love that began to blossom within him for me. And though I admired him in many ways, my fear was the greater, and my cousin's tales of Gríma's wickedness quashed what affection I felt for the wayward counsellor. The son of Gálmód had not been evil in those days; I knew this for certain. But I had believed, and in my folly had turned from him.

Yet his love for me did not die, but grew the stronger. My withdrawal of my affections nearly destroyed him. Despair drove him into Saruman's service, and into shadow; and when his bargain had been made an irreparable rift had been created, parting us for eternity.

I had cared for him, once; whether it was love or merely a young girl's infatuation is to be debated. I had felt _something; _but I had buried that something in the Glittering Caves at Helm's Deep, when the battle raged above my head and I was left helpless down below. When I returned to that place, the bitterness that I had thought I had released and forgotten forever came back full force.

Despite this, the visit itself had not really been very interesting; the place was the same as it had always been, except for several new memorials to those who had died in the Battle for Helm's Deep during the War of the Ring. The walls were beginning to fall into disrepair, I had seen, and the statue of Helm Hammerhand was crumbling. After making a note that I should tell my brother of this when I saw him next, I had departed during a great rainstorm, which had abated but threatened to break out again at any moment.

I had hoped to arrive back at my husband's camp within the day, but the weather obviously had no desire to cooperate. I knew that I must seek shelter at once, or catch a chill and sicken. The only shelter nearby, however, was the Tower of Orthanc, former home of Saruman the White and all his servants, including my uncle's traitorous counsellor. The place, as far as I knew, was currently abandoned; not even the Ents worked there any longer. Saruman had passed into shadow long ago, as had Gríma.

I did not relish the thought of waiting out the storm at the place of Gríma's death, knowing how often that night my thoughts were certain to stray to him, and how I would act the day afterwards when I rejoined Faramir. However, I had no other option. This was plain to me as Orthanc's pinnacle and the broken walls of Isengard came into view, for at that moment a roll thunder roared threateningly above me. I resigned myself to my night's lodgings and pushed my horse to again ride harder.

Fortunately, my horse was swift and I managed to arrive at Isengard before the downpour. I silently prayed the doors to the Tower remained unlocked as I rode across the empty expanse of what was once Saruman's giant mechanical machine-filled lawn and arrived at the stairs leading to the door. I dismounted from my horse, found a place to safely tie her, and then vaulted up the stairs and to the door.

Eerily, it swung open before my hand even touched it. I hesitated before going in. Perhaps staying here was not such a good idea after all? But a flash of lightning cut across the sky again and quickly made up my mind. I hurried inside to the relative safety of Orthanc.

The door closed behind me, again without my assistance, and I was left standing in the entryway, with no idea where to go or what to do. It was terrifying and uncanny. The place was silent as a tomb and devoid of almost any object; I could almost feel the presence of Saruman lurking in every corner. He may have died and disappeared, but this place still belonged to him. It struck a sense of quiet horror in me; I was awed and repulsed at the same time, intensely fearful but struck by the immense power this place held. I could understand why Gríma must have thought that the master of this tower could never fall, and why he would choose to follow this man's path instead of his country's. Had I been coerced into coming here, I might well have fallen into Saruman's trap and bent to his will as Gríma did.

I did not wish to venture further, but I dared not remain in the entryway. Uruk-hai and other enemies of the Free People might still abound here; it would be safer for me I remained hidden. Yet I did not feel as though I would be safe. Indeed, I felt as though I would instead be putting myself in greater danger by wandering further into the tower. I gathered my courage and began up the stairway.

The stairs were black onyx, like everything around me, and they spiraled up and up and up, and continued up so high that it made me dizzy to even attempt to look. After a set amount of stairs (about twenty, I think) there would be a passageway off in one direction, which led, I assumed, to various rooms. When I arrived at the first of these passageways, I entered it.

I had been correct; the passageway contained nine rooms, four along the right side, four along the left side, and one directly at the end. I looked into each one. The four on the right were empty. Three of the rooms on the left were also empty, but one of them was locked. There was a keyhole, however, and I peered through this curiously. Through it I saw a dark floor, stained with some sort of substance (I dared not allow my imagine to guess what it was), and the walls were lined with bones. I shuddered and back away from that door; clearly, it was locked for a reason.

The last door at the end of the hallway was unlocked, but I was hesitant to open it after having glimpsed what was kept in the other one. However, curiosity got the better of me, and I entered.

I found that this room was very large, but also very cluttered. There were tables covered with all different types of things. Books and papers lay scattered everywhere, and strange gadgets laid on many, if not all, of the tables. There were scales of all kinds and bottles full of various liquids and powders that, I guessed, Saruman used in his potions and inventions. There was one table tucked away in a corner caught my eye. It was rounded to fit its shape exactly, for it was quite unlike the rest.

It was very neatly ordered, with several books and pieces of parchment, and a few bottles all lined tidily in a row. Each bottle had a neatly written label glued on it. I recognized the handwriting almost instantly; this table had once been Gríma Wormtongue's.

I approached Gríma's desk with great trepidation. I did not want to see these things that had once been his, but somehow, I could not resist a passing glance. There were, of course, many books (the former counsellor was a great lover of books); some, I assumed, were journals, in which he recorded his thoughts and deeds. There were bottles of various colored inks, and potions for his many ailments and the many ailments of others. There was a bottle full of quills with which to write and a stack of blank parchment on the corner of the desk. All of it was carefully stacked and organized.

I gave a small start as I studied the table more closely, for there was no layer of dust upon it. In fact, it looked as though it had been used very, very recently. A sudden ominous feeling grew within me, and I leapt back from the table as though it had come alive and bit me. "No," I whispered to the silent, still air. "No, it can't be…!"

My words hung in the silence for a moment, and eerily that silence seemed almost to answer my unspoken fears. I spun on my heel and fled the room, terror burning my heart. Rainstorm or no, I now knew I could not stay here. Someone had been here recently - today, even - and I was beginning to guess who that person might be. Fear overtook me as I hurtled down the stairs at top speed. My head and heart were both pounding, my mind spinning with confused emotions.

I did not want him to be alive. Dead, it was much easier to forget him. Dead, I could make him the villain I had thought he would be. But if he was alive… if he was alive and I was forced to face him, I would be unable to deny the pain he had caused me. I would be unable to flee the emotions that had tormented and haunted me in the years before the War of the Ring, and then, surely, I would crumble and break. I was struggling already with my desire to be free of a painful and distant marriage; I could not take this atop all of my other difficulties.

I tore down the staircase at top speed, leaping off the last stair and tearing towards the door. I reached it and forced all my weight against it, pushing. I had to get out. I had to leave this oppressive place before my worst fears were confirmed. I pushed with all my strength, waiting for the door to fly open and release me.

It remained tightly closed.

I gave a tiny cry of horror and slammed my fists against it, beating it with all my fury. "Open!" I commanded furiously. "Why will you not open?"

That was when I felt it: the stare that had haunted me for so many years when Gríma was still my Uncle's counsellor.

"Those who enter Orthanc cannot leave it, save when the Lord of Isengard grants them leave to depart," a voice behind me said softly, triumph barely masked beneath the words.

I froze at the sound of that voice. I felt as chilled as ice, and any semblance of hope that I had had of escaping crumbled and left me. I turned slowly to face him, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. I did not want to see his face. I did not want to hear his voice. I did not want to know he was there at all. Yet, I could not resist facing him.

"Gríma," I whispered, and in my heart I felt a despair deeper than any I had felt before.

His face was impassive, but his icy blue eyes spoke for him. "My princess," he whispered. I could sense his desire to step nearer, but he held his ground, hands laced tightly behind his back, as though he was attempting not to reach out for me. "It has been _far_ too long."


	2. Chapter 2

"They told me you were dead," I said to Gríma accusingly, stepping backwards to lean against the door. I pushed against it again, but still it would not budge.

"Oh, they certainly did their best to see me dead," Gríma said bitterly. "The Elf's arrow hit me in the shoulder. Even an Elf's aim cannot be precise from such a distance. From where they were mounted upon their horses, it seemed as though his shot had struck me in the heart. The force of the shot knocked me to the ground, and they assumed I was dead." He shrugged slightly. "Their mistake." After a moment of silence, he said, "You were not with them."

I shook my head.

"I wanted to see you," he said softly.

"I did not wish to see you," I spat, my eyes glowing with unsuppressed rage. "Worthless traitor."

To my surprise, Gríma did not flinch. "I was wrong," he said softly. "And I am the sorrier for it."

I laughed mirthlessly. "And I suppose you expect me to be moved by such an apology?" I said harshly. "Thousands lie dead because of you! My parents were casualties of Saruman's war. Perhaps you were not part of his web of deceit when they died, but you joined him later. You caused me more pain than any other ever has in my life! Do not expect me to forgive you for that."

Gríma had the decency to look ashamed. "It was not my intention to bring harm to you," he insisted quietly.

"Wasn't it?" I cried, my voice rising with each passing moment. "You thought to destroy my country, and yet not destroy me? You thought to murder my brother and cousin, send my Uncle to an early grave, and bring about the ultimate downfall of our people, and yet still you can say that you did not intend to destroy me?"

I was startled when a flash of anger abruptly crossed Gríma's face. "You cannot understand," he hissed. "Much as I would like to believe otherwise, you can never understand."

"I don't see what there is to understand," I retorted.

"_That_ is the problem, then, isn't it?" he snarled. "Well, allow me to enlighten you. If we are speaking of pain caused, then let me assure you that you destroyed me the day you turned from me in unjust hatred. I had committed no crimes against you then, whatever I may have chosen to do later; why did you so suddenly choose to despise me when you had claimed to love me before?"

I clenched my hands into tight fists. How could his need for vengeance against me for my rejection run so deep? "You intended to betray the country," I started.

"Not then," he said harshly. "It was your rejection that led me to Saruman. If we are to place blame, truly, it is _you_ who brought this agony upon yourself!"

Whatever restraint had kept me from approaching him before snapped beneath my fury. I pushed myself from the wall, walked towards him, and slapped him hard across the face. He stumbled in surprise, a hand flying to clutch at the injured side of his face.

"Do not _dare_ lay your crimes at my feet," I said with slow but steady anger. "You cannot deny your own responsibility in what was done. You betrayed an entire country, let thousands die, out of a selfish desire to possess a woman who did not want you."

That sparked something dangerous in him. "Heartbreak, Éowyn, is the greatest and most terrible agony any being can experience," he snarled. "I thought once that you of all people would understand that."

I flinched, King Elessar and his gentle rejection at Dunharrow flashing across my memory and leaving a searing hot lance of pain. "And you think you are justified in what you did because your heart was broken?" I cried. "What of the men whose wives were mown down like so much grass on the plains of Rohan? What of the wives whose husbands were slain in the futile battle against Saruman's beasts? What of the children who have no fathers or mothers, who were left lost and alone because of the war you aided in creating?"

"Are we talking of your people now – or are you merely speaking for yourself?" Gríma asked callously. My hand leapt upwards of its own accord and Gríma hurriedly moved out of my reach.

"I hardly believe it mattered to you if your actions hurt me," I hissed. "All that mattered is that someday, somehow, my will would be completely subjected to your own."

He winced again. "That's a lie!" he protested.

"Is it?" I said sharply. "What did you expect, snake? That I would willingly give my heart to you when Saruman had destroyed my kinsmen and my country?"

"I… no…"

"Then enlighten me," I said sardonically. "What _did_ you believe would happen?"

"I… I didn't…" He snarled in frustration, words failing his typically ever-eloquent tongue. "I didn't think about it!" he finally burst out. "I wanted to believe what the wizard told me, and when I saw what I'd done… it was too late then, wasn't it? I couldn't turn back. So I had to believe… that Saruman would keep his promise. Somehow." He looked back at me, almost hopefully. Bitter disappointment flashed in his pale eyes when he saw I had not softened. "You don't understand," he said finally, with great certainty. "Saruman never spoke to you. You don't know his power."

"I imagine I would have been stronger than you in his presence," I said bitingly.

Gríma cast a halfway adoring glance at me. "You would have been," he agreed. "But you would have broken… just like all others, you would have broken."

I shivered at the horrible conviction in his voice and hugged myself. He saw the shudder and frowned in concern. He stepped towards me and touched my arm, but I leapt back as though he were a leper. A flash of rage crossed his face and he made to grab me, but I dove past him and leapt lightly up the steps, just far enough to be out of reach. "Don't touch me!" I cried shrilly.

Gríma glared threateningly at me. "How will my princess stop me, I wonder?" he asked mockingly. "She has no sword at her side, no brother or uncle or cousin to protect her – no, my Lady is quite alone and defenseless…"

I moved back another few steps. "Not so defenseless as you think," I warned. "Lay one hand on me and I swear to the Valar that I will send you to your much-deserved grave."

Gríma smiled bitterly. "And by your hand I would be glad to die," he said. He took a step up the stairs towards me. The instant I made to move up the stairs, he spoke. "No, princess, stay," he ordered, but it was not the same voice that emanated from him. His voice had suddenly become laden with softness, an alluring promise of safety and protection. I recognized instantly what he was doing – it was his best defense, and his most deadly weapon…

I remembered all too well the incredible power of Gríma's voice when he chose to use it – some trick or spell that Saruman had taught him. The Wormtongue had always had a gift with words, but he had learned a new art to aid even his sweet whisperings when he had come into Saruman's service. So great were his talents that, when he chose, he could subvert almost anyone's will to his. He had only used the power on me twice that I could recall, both times ending in disastrous results for me. He had saved it for me only when he was exceptionally angry or exceptionally frustrated; it seemed he only had the strength, or the black will, to subvert me at times of desperation.

Now again he was desperate – desperate to keep me here, locked and bound to him against my will. I recognized this, but his gentle voice tugged at my core. When I'd lived with him every day I'd grown somewhat accustomed to these magic whisperings, but it had been overlong since I had heard them and my defenses were weak against them...

"Éowyn," he said gently, the voice echoing in my heart. "Éowyn, come to me."

"No!" My voice sounded frantic and harsh to my own ears, and my mind scolded me for behaving so unreasonably at such a sweet request. Still I struggled. "No, it won't work. Stay away from me!"

"Éowyn…" His voice was sad now, heavy and lonely in its tone. "I would not dream of harming you. You _know_ this."

_You do know it… you know he won't – NO! Don't listen!_ "Stop…" I said, more a plea than command.

"No." There, finally, was a touch of petulance; his voice momentarily lost its control and I leapt back, realizing abruptly that he was right beside me. I cried out and fell back with a gasp, but it was too late – his hands caught my arms and dragged me back.

"No!" I screamed, struggling violently. "You cannot do this!"

Gríma spoke once again, his voice melodious and soothing beyond measure: "Hush, Éowyn… hush, my love… be still…"

Quite against my will, I ceased to struggle. I was hypnotized, lost in the eddies and swirls of that soft voice and its promise of tenderness. My mouth fell slightly agape and my head tilted a little to the side, my eyes fluttering closed as one hand released me and slid to my waist.

"There…" the voice purred. "There, my princess… come with me…"

Some part of me rebelled at the command, and I stood momentarily frozen. Yet the voice didn't lose its soft tone - it tugged at me, pleaded gently with me: "Éowyn, come with me… please, come with me, princess…" My will gave way, my body relaxed, and helplessly I permitted my captor to lead me from the dark entryway into a similarly dark corridor.

Inwardly I felt myself struggling, and I knew he sensed it too – his grip on my arm tightened and he began whispering a continuous stream of gentle words in my ear. My will was smothered, as though he were pressing a feather pillow over it and watching as its fighting grew weaker and weaker. Finally it ceased its effort altogether, and I was left floating dazedly on a warm cloud of trust and contentment. Triumphantly, he led me blindly up the winding staircase – up and up and up until we reached one of the highest corridors in the tower.

He led me into a large room with bookcases stacked to the ceiling with documents from every far country in Middle Earth. The room was dark and full of shadows, but there were flickering candles placed every which-way in an attempt to bring more light to the lonesome place. I blinked slowly at them, hazily and almost unseeing. I stopped just inside the room, and Gríma released me long enough to close the door and bar it. The sound of the bar slamming into place shook me from my stupor, and I turned with a sharp gasp. "No!" I screamed, and dove for the door.

Gríma still stood in my way, and he caught my shoulders with his hands and forcefully pushed me back, with all the strength in his frail frame. "Éowyn," he said sharply, all traces of its magic beauty gone, "I don't intend to harm you! I only wish to speak with you!"

"Indeed?" I sneered disbelievingly. "Of what? You'll never convince me of your worthiness."

"We'll see about that," he said gruffly, determinedly forcing me still further into the room. "Stop struggling!"

"Let me go!" I ordered furiously.

"Fine," he snarled, and he released me. I fell forward in surprise, but quickly recovered my feet. I started towards the door again, but Gríma held out his hand and said something in a low, deep growl – the Black Speech, I gathered. When I made to lift the bar on the door, it was held fast.

"Bastard!" I cried, turning on him.

He dropped his hand, eyes burning with slow fury. "Éowyn," he said, attempting to compose himself, "You did not seriously believe I would simply let you go after having craved your presence for so long, did you? I need to talk with you."

"What for?" I spat. "We have nothing to say to one another."

"Clearly, we have a great _deal_ to say to one another," Gríma said wryly. He paused to study me more closely. "Éowyn, when you leave this place, I will most likely never see you again," he said. "When I saw that you were here… there are so many things I want to say to you… so many questions I need answers to…"

I was not mollified; rather, I was caught by curiosity. "What questions? Surely you know everything you need to."

"If only," Gríma said, laughing mirthlessly. "I can only dream of knowing why you saw fit to deride and scorn the only man who ever truly loved or knew you."

My fury rose in me again. "Your bitterness is unbecoming of you," I said icily.

"You will forgive me my bitterness, my Lady, and I shall forgive you yours," he said. "The Valar know we both have our reasons."

Despair rapidly overtook my rage and I turned away from him in sorrow. "Why?" I whispered painfully. "Why did you not die?"

A flash of terrible agony crossed Gríma's face, and he stepped away from me as though I had taken my sword and forced it through his heart. "You wish me dead so much?" he asked, devastated.

"I do!" I said vehemently. "I wish you had died with the master who ruled you!"

"The only master who ever truly ruled me was _you_," Gríma told me in a low voice. He laid his hand on my cheek, his thumb tenderly stroking my skin.

The gesture both soothed and repulsed me, and I pushed his hand away, stepping hurriedly away from him again. "I could leave now," I said angrily, although I instantly recalled that this was untrue. "I could depart at once and find my husband, and return with him here so that he could kill you."

"You could kill me yourself, if you so desired," Gríma said sardonically. "And you cannot leave until I - " He stopped suddenly and balked, the full meaning of my sentence sinking in. He stared at me with wide, pale eyes. "You have a _husband_?" he cried.

I looked resolutely at the wall, refusing to meet his gaze. I mentally berated myself for mentioning Faramir; the Valar only knew what reaction Gríma would have to that.

He stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the wall, and said in a dangerously low voice, "You are wedded to another man?"

I closed my eyes tightly and said, "Yes. Three years ago."

Gríma's hand clenched almost reflexively around my wrist, crushing it in his grip. "This cannot be," he hissed, his eyes glittering. "This _cannot_ be!"

I tried to pull my hand from his, but he would not release me this time. "What did you expect?" I demanded, still struggling against him. "Three years you have been dead; and for many more than those three I could never have chosen you as my husband."

His other hand leapt to my arm and closed around it. He dragged me closer to him and said harshly, "And for a few years before those, I could have been your husband. I _should_ have been your husband. You would have chosen me, wouldn't you - if your cousin had not turned you from me?"

Tears threatened my defenses, but I forced them back. "I -"

"_Wouldn't_ you?"

I hung my head, a single tear finally streaking my cheek. "Yes," I admitted finally, and I felt as though a great burden were lifted my shoulders. "Yes, I would have."

Gríma visibly seemed to relax, and his grip on my arms loosened. "Éowyn…" he breathed, and he pulled me against him and kissed me, hard.

I had kissed him once, when I was fifteen and we had been alone in his study. His had not been my first kiss, but his was the one that had seared my memory forever, perhaps because of his later betrayal and the way that betrayal had tormented me. This kiss was one of raw pain. Too much had happened between us; there was no romance anymore, only bitterness, lies, and empty dreams. I pulled free of him with a violent wrenching of my body. "This cannot be," I said harshly, and turned away from him in despair.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Originally this story was supposed to happen in three parts, the first draft of the second half already having been posted here. However, due to upcoming changes in the original plot, I've decided instead to turn this into one longer fic. Hence, the sequel, _Black Poison_, is coming down, and the third part, _Pinnacle_, will be nonexistent now. Elements of both fics will make appearances in here, but they won't be posted as separate stories. Also, the rating has dropped for the time being due to the fact that original scene that garnered the rating won't be making an appearance for awhile yet. Thanks for your patience with my extremely slow updating, and enjoy!**

I could sense Gríma's frustration radiating from him as I folded my arms across my chest, staring determinedly at the floor, my back turned to him. "Éowyn," he said pleadingly.

"I cannot stay," I said stiffly before he could speak another word.

"And neither can you go," he countered instantly. I heard him take a step towards me, but he thought better of it. "Firstly, and most importantly, because I will not let you go; and besides, a storm rages outside these walls, and should you leave their safety, then you may be assured that you will injure yourself or worse."

"I should never have come here," I said absently.

"But I'm glad you did," Gríma said to me, his voice low. "When I realized it was _you_ who had come…" His voice was thick with longing, and I could feel his gaze burning into my back. I stiffened as I heard him take another step towards me; the small gesture seemed to challenge him, and despite his earlier hesitation he closed the distance between us. I didn't move, although I wanted to; I stood rooted to the spot, staring resolutely at the wall before me, my body taut. He was right behind me, fractions of an inch from pressing his body against mine; how many other times had he been this close, how many other times had he unnerved me with his nearness and yet, had never touched me?

"Éowyn, I have cried for you in dreams," he murmured, his breath tickling my ear. My skin prickled into goosebumps, and my fingers tightened their hold on my arms. "I have pleaded and prayed that the Valar would send you to me… and finally, _finally_ they have heard me." His voice was reverent now, soft and tender and awed. I caught a glimpse of his fingers reaching towards my hair, but they froze before touching the yellow strands. "Don't you understand, my princess? You were sent here for a reason; they gave you to me, to redeem myself…"

"If you truly want to redeem yourself, then release me," I said coldly. "Keeping me here proves nothing to me."

"If you leave, you will never understand," he said certainly.

"If I stay, you will only be tempted to take from me what I will not give you willingly," I countered.

"Tempted?" A horrible laugh issued from my captor, a rasping, bitter laugh that made me shudder. I heard him step away from me, and I turned in time to see his back towards me. "She stands there, as defiant as I recall and more beautiful even than my dreams have made her, fighting me tooth and nail despite the hopelessness of her situation, and yet she believes I am not yet _tempted?_" He laughed again and turned back to me, his eyes afire with a frightening passion. "Oh, Éowyn," he said, "You are the _embodiment_ of temptation."

I lifted my chin. "I never intended it to be so," I said.

"Oh, no," Gríma sneered, stepping towards me. "No, you were far too innocent to purposefully make yourself alluring – but then, that is what makes me crave you so." His eyes flickered down my form, and he licked his lips, a quick, rapid view of his pale tongue. I halfway expected to see its fork as it retreated back into his mouth, and I smiled acidly at the thought. _Snake_, I had called him; and a snake he was. How fitting it would be if his tongue fit the description…

"Something amuses you?" he questioned coldly.

I met his gaze evenly. "Let me go," I said, calmly evading his question.

His eyes narrowed, pale blue slits glaring out at me from pallid flesh. "No," he said flatly. "For tonight, at least, my Lady, you are mine."

Anger flared inside me again, and I foolishly closed the distance between us again until we were face to face, so close the tips of our noses almost touched. "I am _not_ yours," I spat, glaring rebelliously up at him. "I will _never _belong to you."

"You did, once," he said quietly. "You said so yourself."

I shook my head violently, starting to draw back. His hand shot out like lightning and snaked about my wrist, holding me where I stood. "Let. _Go_," I ordered, clenching my teeth tightly.

He stared me down, never taking his eyes from mine as he lifted my hand, palm up, to his lips. He planted a kiss in the center of my palm, and a line of fire seared a path down my flesh. He smiled wickedly at me over my own fingers, his right hand still closed about my wrist. His eyes were filled with triumph as he purred, "Why, my Lady, your heart is beating so fast… are you frightened? Or is there something _else_ that makes your heart pound so?"

My face flamed, and I tore my hand from him. I started towards the door, fruitless though the action might have been, more certain than I ever that I had to flee. Gríma's anger at my attempt to depart again was palpable in the room. "Come _back_," he ordered, his voice echoing eerily.

"No!" I cried, pushing against the door with all my strength. "I won't!"

There was a pause, then a soft whisper so quiet I almost didn't catch it: "_Coward._"

The whisper struck me like a spear, piercing me to the core. I turned on him, every inch of me afire with rage. "Don't you _dare_ call me a coward… _Wormtongue_," I hissed.

The hateful title drew a ragged, furious gasp from him, and he started for me across the room. Reckless with my own anger, I met him halfway, fists raised and ready to hit him – but he caught my wrists and slammed me back against the hard stone door. I screamed in fury and struggled violently against him, kicking and snarling like a wild animal, and he fought back with equal ferocity to keep me pinned. Yet he knew he couldn't defeat me using only brute force; eventually, with a snake-like hiss, he set me free. I stumbled free of the door, and when I recovered my feet, punched him so hard his lip split. The sight of his blood quelled the tide of my anger, and I stood still as stone, staring at him with wide, harsh eyes as he touched a hand to his wound.

After a moment, he laughed darkly. "I suppose I deserved that," he said.

"You deserve much worse than that," I snarled.

He glanced at me, his face impassive. "Very well, then," he said, turning to face me fully. "Kill me."

I blinked at him in astonishment. "What?"

"Kill me," he repeated. "You said you wished I had died with Saruman when first you arrived; you told me you could kill me if I attempted to harm you despite your lack of a weapon; and more than once you've insinuated that I don't deserve to live. And, most likely, you're right. A creature like me should never have been born." His eyes bored into mine. "So kill me," he challenged. "Take my life; end your suffering and my own. The doors will open to you once I am dead, and you will be free."

I stared, my mouth slightly agape, uncertain what to do. He stood before me, unarmed, uncaring, ready to die. He had offered me freedom in exchange for his life. All I had to do was reach out and take it from him.

I stepped hesitantly towards him, staring into his eyes, but they were as unreadable as the black stone behind him. His face was blank, and his body too was silent. I lifted a hand, dropped it, studied his face in confusion.

I remembered him as a different man, a younger man, dark-haired, shy, intelligent, guiding my hand across a scrap of parchment as he taught me to write. I remembered his expression as he feigned interest in my constant lectures on the proper use of swords; I remembered a rare and beautiful smile, fragile but perfect, spreading to his eyes and making them sparkle even in the dark shadows of his room. I had earned that smile when I given him a book I'd purchased to thank him for tolerating me. I remembered his early, awkward courtship, the pain and confusion in his eyes after I stopped speaking to him, the fear and loathing in his face whenever he was close to my brother. I remembered that he was a traitor, that in my heart I had steeled myself against him by casting only that name to him, forgetting that he was human.

In that moment, I saw only a man.

Despair washed through me, and I sank down before him with a sob, feeling defeat tearing at my soul. "I can't," I whispered, burying my face in my hands.

For a moment he was perfectly still. Then in seconds he was on the floor beside me, his hands cupping my face and brushing away my tears. "Oh, Éowyn, my love…" he whispered, drawing me closer.

I collapsed onto his shoulder with another sob, wounded and angry and sad and torn in every direction. He held me close, stroking my hair and pressing kisses to the top of my head, whispering my name over and over again.

I should have torn away from him, but my body was exhausted from sparring with him and I was sapped of all my energy. My crying ceased after a few minutes, yet I stayed curled against him, staring blankly across the room. "Ever have you sought to lead me astray from the path of all that is good," I whispered finally.

"And ever have you rejected my path of shadows," Gríma said regretfully. "Yet still I would tempt you into my darkness, if I could…" He pressed his lips to my neck, just below the curve of my jaw. "Éowyn, stay with me," he pleaded. "Just one night."

"What for?" I asked wearily.

"Let me show you why I've become what I have," he requested. "Let me show you how much, how deeply I love you… what life with me could have been like, if things had been different between us…"

"You ask too much," I said, my voice tired.

"It's only one night," he murmured. "Just one night, and then you may forget me and move forward as you will."

I turned the request over in my mind, thinking it over carefully. "What do you want from me, then?" I asked.

"Just you," he breathed into my ear. "_All_ of you…"

"My heart, my mind, my soul…" I paused. "My body?"

His fingers tightened on my arm. "Yes," he said hoarsely.

"You know I cannot give you that," I said.

He sighed. "I feared you might respond that way," he said, "Yet still I note you have not tried to move from my embrace."

I pulled away at that, face aflame, and leapt to my feet. "_Please_," I whispered painfully, "_Please_, Gríma, leave me be."

He studied me with terrible agony in his eyes. "As you wish, my Lady," he said regretfully. He, too, stood, looking my over sadly. Then he turned towards the door and whispered something. It sprung open as though someone had thrown themselves against it. "Go," he said harshly, turning away. "Go, before I change my mind."

I hesitated only a fraction of a second before hurrying towards the door. I was almost out when I heard a sharp cry pierce the air. I froze and turned back to him. "What… what was that?" I asked.

He glanced back at me. "It's not your concern," he said tartly. "Get out."

The cry, however, had caught my attention, and I wouldn't leave until I knew where – and whom – it had come from. I stepped back inside the room, my eyes narrowing abruptly. "It's my concern now," I said coldly, walking towards the sound.

Gríma stood frozen in place, staring at me with wide eyes. "Éowyn…" he said, his tone strained, "If you don't leave now I may not let you go."

I ignored him. I did not care about my own fate any longer; I cared only for that pitiful cry – and the person who had emitted it. "Who are you keeping locked away in here?" I demanded, looking into the next room.

"Locked away?" Gríma said indignantly. I heard the door slam and winced; my opportunity to escape was gone now. But if I could save this person, whoever he or she was, it would be worth it. "Why would I have need to lock anyone away here?"

"Is that not your intent for me?" I questioned icily, marching into the next room and looking about. There were only more bookshelves and a desk littered with papers.

"My intentions for you are apparently of no concern to you, since you've chosen to stay," he said, hurrying along behind me. "And I've locked no one else away here."

"Then who cried out, I wonder?" I asked scathingly.

Gríma sighed in frustration. "It's _not _your concern," he repeated insistently.

The cry came again, louder this time, and I turned my head sharply in its direction. I ran suddenly, following the pathway of doors that led through Gríma's chambers. The rooms I passed through were a dark blur, but I finally was forced to stop in the final one – the room that was plainly his bedchamber. It was almost utter, empty blackness except for a rather large four-post bed, which was surrounded by black silk curtains. There were many more candles burning in the dark corners of the room, each of them formed into some ornate shape. They appeared almost like other life forms as they melted and began to drip their sallow wax on the long metal rods that supported them.

"I wouldn't pause here, if I were you," Gríma said from behind me in amusement.

I drew in a quick, startled breath and leapt away from him. "There isn't another door!" I said in aggravation, looking about the wide, black walls.

"I'm sure this isn't the room you'd wish to find yourself trapped in with me," Gríma said, his suppressed laughter plain in his voice.

I flushed. "It wasn't in my plan, no," I admitted, looking around. The cry came again, and this time it was much nearer. My head snapped towards the sound, and I suddenly spotted a dark passageway leading to another door. There was a faint light showing beneath it. "Ah, _there_ it is," I said in satisfaction, hurrying down the hall.

"Éowyn -!" Gríma protested, all traces of amusement gone, but I was too quick for him. I threw open the door and entered.

The room was small and very hot, due to a fireplace set at one end in which a fire was blazing, casting bright and dancing light about the otherwise dark and pitiless chamber. Over this fire there hung a cauldron that bubbled with an odd-smelling liquid – not unpleasant, merely foreign. I turned, frowning slightly – and cried out abruptly.

"Angaran," I gasped, and I hurried to his side.


	4. Chapter 4

"You know him?" Gríma asked in surprise as I knelt by Angaran's restless, prone form.

"He's a young Ithilien ranger," I said softly, reach out to stroke the boy's face. "My husband's looking for him. That's what brought us here."

The mention of Faramir made Gríma's face contort briefly in anger, but I ignored the expression – I had more important things on my mind. "Why is he here?" I asked. I glared accusingly at Gríma. "What are you doing to him?"

Gríma sighed in frustration. "I'm trying to help him, actually," he said angrily. "I'm _so_ pleased you instantly presume that I'm trying to murder him."

"It doesn't look like you're doing your utmost to keep him alive," I said sullenly, looking back at the boy. Angaran was very young for a ranger, with dark shoulder length hair. In earlier days when I had known him his skin was weathered from all the time he spent patrolling Ithilien's grounds; but now his skin was pallid and damp. His hair clung damply to his face, giving him the appearance of a drowned man newly removed from his watery grave. I touched a hand to his forehead and found it ice cold. He was laid out on a pallet in the small room, covered in heavy blankets to keep him warm, and he was tossing feverishly to and fro.

"I'm doing what I can for him," Gríma said shortly. He stepped into the room, closing the door to prevent a draft. "I found him out in Fangorn as I slipped out to gather some food and herbs. He was very sick, so I brought him back to the tower to see what I could do for him. Professional curiosity, I suppose – he suffers from one of the many plagues of the forest, none of which any healer has ever been able to cure. I imagine you recall my interest in medicine."

I nodded a little; I remembered very well, for Gríma had ministered to me more than once when I had fallen ill – desperate to protect his prize, I supposed. Gríma had never used the services of the court's healers; rather, he had counted on his own skills with herbs and his knowledge of herb lore to protect him in case of illness. I guessed it was something of a necessity, as Gríma had often been ill in his time and had not been well liked enough to trust that the healers would do everything they could to save him. "I have not heard of these forest plagues," I said to him warily.

"They are discussed only amongst healers, my Lady, and admirers of forest lore," he said. "They are whispered about in old tales, of course; Fangorn is infamous for its dangers. But they are feared and little is known about them, so they are mere whispers within the tales."

I glanced at the bubbling pot above the fire. "What's in that?" I inquired, glancing up at him.

"Medicine," he said shortly.

I took Angaran's hand in mine, and the boy moaned miserably, turning away from me. "Is there… is there anything more you can do for him?" I asked unhappily.

"Actually, he's doing better than he was," Gríma told me, a touch of arrogance in his voice. "I think he'll have improved within the next few days."

I looked up hopefully. "You really think so?"

Gríma shrugged casually. "If I continue to tend to him as I have been, yes," he said. "If I were to stop… he would fall back into his previous state and die."

I frowned. "Why would you stop?" I questioned.

He smiled coldly. "What reason do I have to spare an underling of the man who has stolen my princess from me?" he asked me.

I stared at him, dumbstruck with horror and fury. "He couldn't steal what you didn't already have," I finally spat.

Gríma's eyes narrowed. "Tread carefully, princess," he warned me ominously. "The doors of Orthanc have been barred to you, and you will not easily pass out of them again."

"Do you _dare_ to threaten me?" I hissed, leaping to my feet. "You are the most heartless, soulless, miserable little worm of a man that I ever knew! How can you possibly -?"

Angaran groaned again, and I fell silent, looking at him with worry.

Gríma pulled open the door. "We should continue this argument… _elsewhere_, my Lady," he said, bowing me mockingly through the door.

I glared at him, but I knew he was right, and I walked past him, through the black corridor and out into his bedchamber. Being there made me nervous, but Gríma darted in front of me to lean easily against the door out, blocking my escape. I growled in the back of my throat and turned away, walking to the opposite end of the room. "You can't possibly be so inhuman as to kill an innocent man in vengeance for a marriage that he had no part in," I said after a moment. I sounded far more confident than I felt; inwardly, I wasn't certain that Gríma _was_ human anymore.

Gríma smirked slightly. "Can't I?" he questioned. "Have I not done it before?"

I drew in my breath sharply. "Why do you think this will win you anything, snake?" I demanded. "These actions make you even more repulsive to me than you were before!"

"Careful what you say, princess, lest you regret it," Gríma said calmly. "You would do well to remember that you are in _my_ territory now, with no escape except through me; and I _do_ have powers quite capable of bending you to my will, if all else fails."

I shuddered at the recollection of his sweet voice. "That's not what you want," I said assuredly. "You don't want to force me to bend to you. You want me willingly, and you can't pretend otherwise."

The small smile that had been playing across his face evaporated. "This is so," he confessed, somewhat regretfully. "But you will find, my Lady, that I am getting a little desperate."

"So it would seem," I said bitterly. "Wouldn't it be wise, you think, if you seek the quickest path to my heart, to continue healing Angaran? Wouldn't that show me your good will towards the outside world, my husband and myself?"

"Ah, but see, therein lies the problem – your _husband_," he said, his voice dripping with derision. "How can I be sure that your heart will actually be mine when you ask this favor of me not for yourself, but for your husband?"

I crossed my arms over my chest. "You certainly won't endear yourself to me by killing the boy," I said icily.

"No, I don't suppose I will," he said, somewhat carelessly. He studied me for a moment, then said softly, "If his life means so much to you… would you be willing to trade for it?"

I was momentarily stunned into silence. "I… I… trade what?" I asked suspiciously.

He smirked. "I think you know."

My heart thudded noisily in my ears. "I… I don't…!"

"Just one night, Éowyn," Gríma said smoothly. "It's such a simple thing, such a little span of time…"

I narrowed my eyes. "How do I know you'll release me in the morning?"

He grinned. "You'll have to trust me," he said.

I snorted. "As far as I can throw you," I said hotly, which only made him laugh.

"Clever woman," he murmured. "Éowyn, really. Even if I were to keep you here – and I will admit that the possibility is very, _very_ real – for another man's life, the life of a friend, the happiness of your husband… wouldn't it be worth it?"

Damn him. I blinked back angry tears, but he knew I couldn't resist such a bargain. My own life mattered little to me. But the lives of others… those I could never gamble – and he was well aware of it.

"One night," I said finally, and the triumph on Gríma's face made me ill. "On one condition," I said, holding up my hand.

He frowned slightly. "What?" he snapped.

"I have to see Angaran's improvement first," I said. "I have to know, in my heart – see with my own eyes – that he will live." I smiled bitterly. "No payment for no service."

He looked furious, but it was a reasonable request and he knew he could not sway me. "It could take days," he said quietly. "Weeks, even. I'm not sure of the exact time. Would you stay here, locked away in this tower with me, avoiding me at every possible moment, until you were certain of Angaran's life?"

"No," I said evenly. "I will leave this place tonight, ride back to my husband's camp, and stay with him. In a week I will return to see how Angaran is progressing."

"And how do I know that you will come back?" he asked icily.

I smiled. "You'll have to trust me," I replied. "And I am by _far_ more honorable than you. Unlike _you_, I hold to my word."

He shook his head. "Not in this, you won't," he said certainly. "You will ride to your husband's camp and send him and his men here to slay me." I opened my mouth to protest, but he silenced me by saying, "And if not that, you will never return."

"A man's life hangs in balance!" I cried.

"So does yours," Gríma countered. "In a week's time you will have thought long of the consequences of coming here. You will think of the danger in returning to me; you will fear being kept here in this tower for the remainder of your life far too much to ride back. And what use is your return, if Angaran has died? You will surely not give to me the prize I seek, and if I do not have that who is to say I will release you?"

"You will agree – !" I started.

"To a boon?" Gríma laughed. "A promise from _me_? Will you trust that, Éowyn? Will you trust the word of the Wormtongue, place your life in my hands?"

I shuddered. "That is what I am doing," I whispered.

"And you are also fleeing," he said flatly. "Like a coward, you would run back to your husband's arms and have _him_ end the bargain for you."

"That is not so!" I shouted, fury rising in me. "If you think I do not honor my words, snake, then you have never known me at all!"

He smiled bitterly. "Your honor is very important to you; any can see that plainly," he said. "I do not doubt that at this moment you fully intend to keep your promise. But understand it from _my_ side, love: if I release you, that is seven days I am without you; seven days that you are far from me and with your husband; seven days that you are free to do as you will and think as you will. Stronger men, when granted such a gift, might use it to escape. I am sorry, my princess, but I cannot in all reasonableness let you leave this tower." He bowed mockingly. "No payment for no service."

"You bastard," I spat.

He met my angry eyes evenly. "I have already lost you once," he said. "I do not intend to let it happen again."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to fly at him and beat him to a blood pulp. I wanted to do all sorts of violence to his sneering, mocking person, but such actions had already proven futile. I drew in a shaky breath to calm myself. "Then what would you have me do?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.

"Do as you wish," he said. "Withhold yourself until you see Angaran's improvement. Stay until he is well enough to leave."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "And in the meantime?"

"You are free to wander within the tower as you choose," he said, making a sweeping gesture towards the rooms behind him. "You may of course spend as much time in my quarters as you wish. I will assume that this will be strictly to visit Angaran, as I have no doubt you don't wish to see me. When Angaran has improved sufficiently, I will have…" He paused, eyes flickering downwards and then back to my face. "… my, ah, payment," he concluded, voice embarrassed, "And you will have your freedom."

I stared him down. He didn't flinch. "I will be free to wander the tower _without_ your escort?" I asked.

He inclined his head in agreement.

"You will leave me be even when I am with Angaran?" I pushed

"If that is your wish," he said, clearly pained.

I hesitated. "And where then am I to sleep?" I asked.

_With me,_ his eyes said. But his mouth told me, "You can sleep here; I sleep mostly in my study as it is."

"I expect to be left alone while I rest," I said coldly.

"As you always have been," Gríma replied.

I snorted in disbelief, but he did not waver. "Even if I chose not to agree to this," I said, "Would you let me go now?"

He hesitated, just long enough to give me hope. Then he shook his head, and looked weary. "I cannot," he said. "I am sorry, my Lady, but… I cannot."

I felt defeated. I hung my head, rubbing my arms to keep back the cold of the tower. Its chill was beginning to take me. "My husband is a ranger," I warned. "When I do not return he may well track me here."

"It won't matter," Gríma said. "He will not find an entrance into Orthanc. The way is shut to any I do not wish to see. And the windows of this tower only begin at the higher levels, where it is impossible to reach. You are in a very impenetrable fortress, my Lady."

I clenched my teeth. "A cage," I hissed.

He smiled wryly. "One day we all must face our fears, Éowyn," he said.

"I hope that day arrives soon for you," I spat.

The smile faded, and he turned away. "It is very late, princess," he said. "You should sleep."

I glanced at the small, slanted windows high above my head. It was still dark, but I sensed it would not be much longer. It had indeed been a very long night. "You _will_ leave me," I said forcefully.

"I _am_ leaving you," he said. With that, he turned away from me and was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Make sure you read the end of the fourth chapter again - it's changed now. Thanks very much! Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

I slept long and heavily that night. Once I was certain that Gríma had left me truly alone I crawled into the bed and fell almost immediately asleep. The night, and my arguments with Gríma, had left me exhausted; and though I slept long, I still felt weary when I dragged myself from the bed the next morning.

The room was empty when I finally was awake enough to study it – Gríma, it seemed, was keeping true to his word not to disturb me. But as I looked about the room I noticed a white gown draped over a chair – something I was certain had not been present last night. Frowning, I stormed across the room to grab it, momentarily certain it was one of mine from Edoras. But when I lifted it, I saw that it was new, made of a fabric that was impossibly soft and delicate. I had never felt – or seen – any gown like it.

That only made me more irritable. I tossed the dress over one arm and made my way out of Gríma's room towards his study, and found him there as he had said I might. "What is this?" I demanded, holding up the dress for his inspection.

He glanced up from the book cradled in his arms, disinterested. "To my eyes it appears to be a gown," he drawled, going back to his book.

"Where did you get it?" I demanded, throwing it back over my arm.

"Saruman provided beautifully for your future arrival, although that proved rather useless," Gríma said, turning the page. "You do not seem to like it. Does the gown displease you, my lady?"

"I asked you to leave me be while I slept," I said coldly.

"I did," Gríma said, irritation lacing his voice. "I entered only to leave the dress, and then let you alone. I had thought awakening to fresh clothes might please you, but apparently gratitude is not something I ought to expect from you."

"Gratitude for what?" I spat. "Imprisoning me here in this tower until you see fit to set me free?"

He sighed. "If you dislike the dress, Éowyn, there are others."

I glanced down at the pure white fabric, pressed against my dark brown sleeve. "The dress is beautiful," I admitted grudgingly, "But hardly appropriate for common wear."

"I don't expect you'll be out brandishing swords or digging in a garden," Gríma said in mild amusement. "The tower does not require you to work heavily."

"The tower is still dirty," I replied. "Not all the quarters are kept by a living master." I paused and looked towards the door. "How many chambers do you use?" I asked curiously.

"These, and Saruman's primary study below," Gríma said. "Nothing else."

"You don't explore?"

"No," Gríma said flatly. "I have seen everything in the tower that I wish to see, and more that I didn't."

I stood in awkward silence for a few moments longer, still holding to the gown. "I don't suppose Saruman thought to provide me with clothing less elegant than this?" I finally asked in as haughty a tone as I could muster.

Gríma smiled slightly. "I don't believe he did," he said. "But you can look, if you so desire."

"Where?"

He nodded to the opposite side of the room. Buried amongst the bookshelves and candles was a small door, barely noticeable in the shadows of the chamber. "It doesn't look like much," I said.

"This is the tower of Orthanc, Éowyn," Gríma said dryly. "Appearances can deceive you here."

"I expect they can deceive you anywhere," I returned coolly. "Certainly you were more than successful at deceiving my uncle for a time, but then I suppose we might consider you a product of the tower of Orthanc."

Gríma slammed his book shut with unnecessary force. "Is this how we shall spend our days, Éowyn?" he demanded. "In petty bickering, like squabbling children arguing over a lost ball?"

"I can't fathom why you think it might be otherwise," I said, striding briskly across the room to the small door. "But you needn't concern yourself too much, my lord; your company is the last I would hope for, and so I shall try if possible to avoid it."

"You have made that abundantly clear," Gríma growled. I heard him drop the book forcefully onto a nearby stack. "Why is it that everything I do for you only serves to anger you further?"

"I can hardly recall a time when you have done me any kindness without ulterior motive," I said, swinging open the door. The room was small, but there were a number of sturdy dresses there, nothing nearly so elaborate as the gown I held. There was a simple brown shift, decorated at the torso in green, that I thought would suit my purposes nicely. I removed it and searched for a place to put the other. "I can't imagine where you found this," I said, waving the white dress back at Gríma without looking towards him. "Everything here seems far less elaborate."

"Hmm," Gríma said, voice issuing from directly behind my shoulder. "That's most odd."

I turned with a startled cry; he had been all the way across the room when last I'd looked, but now he stood directly behind me, staring curiously into the small room. I stepped away from him, unsettled. "You move fast," I muttered, "And silently."

"A useful talent," Gríma said, distracted. "Close the door a minute, would you?"

Perplexed, I shut it. Gríma motioned me back and then opened it again himself, then nodded in satisfaction. "I might have known," he said.

"Known what?" I leaned forward curiously and peered back into the room – and gasped.

Instead of the simple dresses I had first seen, there hung within gowns easily more elaborate and elegant even than Queen Arwen's, and her clothes were of Elvish make. I gaped at them like a peasant child, reaching out to touch one of the nearest – an airy, dark blue thing held together by silver thread so thin it resembled spider's silk. "How…?" I whispered, and trailed off.

"I assume it is the sort of room that holds whatever its master needs or expects at the time," Gríma said, intrigued. "Since Saruman told me it contained clothes and other items for you, this is what I assumed would be provided. And you, when you opened the door, were hoping for something slightly plainer than what I apparently envisioned."

"Clearly," I said, still in awe. I closed my fingers a little longingly over the dark blue dress. It was daring, seductive even – not the sort of gown I ever wore, and certainly not the sort I would want to wear when Gríma was present. But its fabric was incredibly soft and looked as though it would allow me to float if I put it on.

"I considered bringing you that one," Gríma said, a lazy smile playing across his features, "But I thought you might prefer something more… _substantial_."

I nodded slowly. "I don't believe I could put it on without tearing it," I agreed. "It's so thin… I'd seem to be wearing nothing but smoke."

"I imagine that was the point," Gríma said, his voice a low purr.

I tore my hand from the dress as though burned and hurriedly stepped even further away from him. "Hardly seems practical," I growled, crossing my arms firmly over my chest. "But I suppose practicality doesn't have a place in your wicked fantasies."

"Apparently not," he said, amused. "You didn't even look at the others."

"If that's the sort of thing I can expect to you encounter, I don't need to," I said flatly. I held up the much more sensible shift I had removed. "This will suit my purpose much better than any of _your_ designs." I threw the white dress to him, and felt unnecessarily annoyed when he caught it.

"That's very well so long as it's your purpose you're dressing for," Gríma remarked, lips quirking into a half-smile. "I'll want something from the wardrobe of _my_ design when the night of my payment comes."

I glared at him. "_If_ it comes," I corrected, turning away with a disdainful lift of my chin.

"You have so little faith in my healing skills?" Gríma asked.

"How can I believe you have the capability to heal when I have only ever seen you do harm?" I questioned. "Good day to you, my Lord."

Before he could protest, I hurried out of the door to his chambers and into the corridor outside, still holding my newly acquired dress in one hand. I thought it prudent to get as far away from him as possible before changing into fresh clothes, and at any rate I felt like one of us might kill the other if we spent any more time in the same room. At least, _I_ might kill him.

I reached the stairs and, without really thinking, ran downwards. I rushed down to the ground level and vaulted across the small space to the door, throwing my weight against it – but it didn't budge. As Gríma had said, I was still trapped.

Sighing, I leaned back against the door and wished for freedom. But the wishing would do me no good, and I knew it. I pushed myself away and wandered to my right, where there stood an imposing door. It opened to my touch and revealed a large dark room – no windows, no light, just blackness. Yet when I made to step away, fire flared in every corner of the room, lamps and candles coming to life.

The room proved to be mostly empty, save for a long table and a series of high-backed black chairs. The room held a gravity to it that suggested war counsels and the meeting of great minds. I felt very small, as though I was a young girl again, trespassing into my uncle's council chamber.

Council… whisperings… Gríma…

I pushed the wartime memories from my mind and stubbornly made my way deeper into the room. I closed the door gently behind me and hurried to a more shadowy, sheltered part of the room. I wasn't certain, but I couldn't imagine that Saruman had not had some way to see every corner of his tower; and if Saruman possessed such a spell or object, then Gríma must surely by this point have learned how to use it. And if that was the case, then in all likelihood he was watching…

I consoled myself with the knowledge that he was at least sixteen floors above me, and set about undressing.

I moved as quickly as possible, sliding my riding clothes off and the new shift on with such rapidity that I astonished even myself. My riding clothes were torn and dirty and looked to be in a very bad state, and the new gown felt smooth and comfortable against my skin. I grudgingly made myself promise to thank Gríma for showing me the wardrobe, and then started for the door again – when I heard whispering from behind me.

Startled, I turned about, looking for the intruder. For a moment I felt fury rising within me, certain that Gríma had followed me here – but no, this was not his voice I heard. I tilted my head and listened for the voice again. It came again briefly, but died away almost at once. "Hello?" I called, taking a step towards the sound – yet again no one answered.

I hesitated, frowning, but the sound did not come again. There was little point in waiting; I turned and hurried towards the door a third time. But just as I reached out to touch the handle – there the voices came, a flurry of whispers and hisses, alluring promises and curses in a tumultuous chorus. I turned at once and made for the sound – and it held relatively steady this time, though it seemed to be retreating with each step I took.

"Hello?" I called again.

_Greetings,_ said the voices, in a thousand tongues. I could not understand half of them, but the few I did know were calling to me. _Will you come with us?_

I stopped as caution urged. "Where are you?" I demanded. "Who are you? What purpose have you in the tower of Orthanc?"

_You are mistress here._

I shook my head. "I am but a passing visitor," I said.

_You are mistress here,_ the voices repeated, again in many tongues. _And he, the master… he will come too._

"The master here is dead," I said firmly.

_There are always new masters._

I frowned. "You speak of Gríma?"

_Griiiiii-ma. _They spoke his name slowly, drawing it out, all the voices at once. It made me skittish as a horse in a storm, and I took a step back.

_Stay, mistress,_ the voices ordered. _You must stay, and come to us._

"I…"

_We have things to show you. You will come._

I frowned. "Things? What things?" I shook my head rapidly. "No, I will not come," I said, making my way firmly towards the door. "You are a trick of Saruman."

_Ssssarrruman,_ the voices trilled. _He could not face us. He called us forth, but he could not face us._

"If Saruman could not face you, than I can hardly be expected to," I said. My back came up firmly against the door – closed. My hands fumbled for the knob. "I am no great wizard."

_Wizards are not the only men to face us._

"I am no man," I said flatly. "I am a Shieldmaiden."

_Shiiiieeeeeldmaiden, _they said, testing the word, rolling it in their mouths – if, indeed, the things had mouths. I could see nothing of the owners of the voices. _Shieldmaiden, what do you fear?_

I started. "What?"

_What do you fear?_

I blinked. "I…"

_Would you like to find out?_

I pressed my hand to the knob. "I… no, I…"

_You wish to know, _the voices insisted. _You wish –_

Behind me, the door was flung open, and firm hands caught my arms and jerked me through the entryway. "Leave her be," my defender snarled, his voice burning with fire and rage. "She is not yours! You cannot have her!"

_We do not want her, _the voices moaned. _We can make you great, if you can but overcome us…_

"Never," my captor spat, voice echoing so harshly that I jumped. "You will not tempt us!"

The doors were forced closed, and I was turned roughly about to face my rescuer.

"Gríma?" I murmured dizzily.

He cupped my face in his hands. "You did not follow them into the Stair, did you?" he demanded, his voice a normal pitch and tone now.

"We're in the stairs," I mumbled.

"No, not these – the Stair," he said impatiently. "It leads downwards."

"To what?" I asked, leaning heavily against him. I felt immeasurably drained, and part of me longed to know what it was the voices were offering.

"I don't know," Gríma confessed, leading me away from the room and slowly up the first flight of stairs. "But Saruman went down and came back mad." He paused. "Madder than he was," he amended regretfully. "He could not face whatever lay there. Come up; you can rest, I'll feed you, I'll –"

My head began to clear the further we were from the counsel room, and as we walked, it occurred to me, rather abruptly, that Gríma had appeared most conveniently. "How did you find me?" I demanded.

He didn't answer immediately, his hand tightening at my waist as he all but dragged me further up the stairs.

"_How did you find me_?" I repeated. I was beginning to recover my senses; the oppressive sense of weariness was gone, and the urge to follow the voices dissolving.

"I… was on my way outside," Gríma said. I started to nod agreeably, then caught myself. I frowned suspiciously and noticed the tiniest hint of a foreign timbre in his tone – a persuasion spell of some variety, no doubt. "I need to gather herbs and plants for Angaran, and for our food supply. And I'm afraid my meat is running rather low…"

"And you heard the voices and came to my aid?" I finished.

He nodded. "You were most fortunate, my lady," he said. "Death or worse would have awaited you if I had not found you."

"There is little worse than death," I said.

He turned to look at me, eyes dark and haunted. "When you have explored the corridors of Orthanc's halls, you will not believe that any longer," he said, a bleak promise. "It would be safer to stay with me, to help me tend Angaran…"

I bristled and pushed his arm from my waist. "You need not concern yourself over my safety, sir," I said coldly. "I am quite capable of defending myself."

"As proven by the voices you nearly followed," Gríma retorted.

"From which you so marvelously _rescued_ me," I snapped. "And how did that come about, my Lord? You say it was merely coincidence, but I can hardly believe that you just _happened_ to be passing by. You knew where I was, and furthermore you knew what I was doing. You were _watching_ me."

His face went still as stone, impassive, impossible to read. "I possess no tool with which to watch you, my lady," he said flatly, turning away.

"Then how did you know it was I approaching Orthanc when I arrived yesterday?" I demanded triumphantly. "How was it that the door closed to me, that you knew me at once and thus revealed yourself, if you could not see me?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but there was little he could say to refute me. "It is true that I can see those coming into and leaving the tower," he said slowly. "But I was not watching you now; it was a fortunate coincidence, nothing more."

I could hear the spell in his voice again. "I can hear it when you lie, you know," I said quietly. "That spell you add to your voice when you're trying to convince me. I recognize it."

He blinked in surprise, then smiled. "Only you, my princess," he said, affection flooding his face. "Only you would hear so subtle a thing."

"I suppose that serves you very well," I said bitterly.

"Not in your case," he sighed. "But please understand, my lady, the tower is dangerous. If I do not make certain you are safe every now and again, you could well die."

"I've barely been gone," I said.

"And yet you still succeeded in finding one of the most dangerous parts of the tower," Gríma replied. "You _do_ have a knack for attracting trouble, don't you, my love?"

"No endearments," I growled. "Not from you." I paused. "You could always let me out of the tower," I proposed cautiously. "To hunt, or to gather. You said we were in need of new meat…"

"Oh, no, princess," Gríma laughed. "You won't find your way out so easily. No, _I_ will do the hunting, and _you_ may stay here."

"Without you in the tower, how can I be certain of my safety?" I asked, pressing a mock-distressed hand to my chest.

Gríma smirked, and I knew very quickly that I wasn't going to like the response. "Oh, it's very simple," he said. "You'll stay locked in my quarters where you can't escape, and where I know you can do little harm."

"Locked in?" I repeated, aghast. "Never!"

"Now, actually," Gríma corrected mildly. "_Come here_." The command was heavy with Gríma's most disarming tone, leaving me feeling warm and eager to obey.

"No," I said petulantly, but I could already feel myself giving in.

"Come here, love," he breathed, and before I recognized what I was doing I was standing in his arms. "_Good,_" he purred, infusing his voice with every bit of persuasion he could manage. "Look up."

I did so, hazily, unaware of myself.

"Closer," he whispered.

I took the tiniest step forward, hardly able to move any closer. He snatched me up in his arms and pressed his lips to mine before the spell broke, before I could gather my wits and stop him.

"Mm!" I cried out sharply and jerked back, the spell shattering the haze that had fallen over my mind. "No!"

He still had me firmly about the waist. "Stop," he ordered as I struggled frantically to get away. "Éowyn, _stop._"

_That damn voice…_ I thought, as my body started to obey him. "_No_," I hissed through clenched teeth, pushing against his chest.

"Éowyn, really, you're being unreasonable," he said, a gentle rebuke as though to a wayward child.

"I am not," I growled, still fighting, though less noticeably. The haze was descending over me again, clouding my thoughts and breaking my judgment.

"It pains me to see you struggling this way," Gríma said, and he did indeed sound pained; my mind wanted to stop, just to please him. Yet some part of me still knew what was happening, and wouldn't give in. Without really thinking, I lifted a hand and slapped him across the face.

I had at least wanted to hear him curse, but he managed to hold his tongue. He hesitated a few moments, and the spell his voice had woven started to lift. He must have noticed, for he immediately began speaking again. "Come with me," he ordered, yet kindly – so that I wanted to come.

The mist was descending upon me again. "No!" I jerked back sharply, but he held onto me.

"Please, Éowyn, come," he pleaded, and the fog took over and strangled all coherent thought.

He must have led me up the many stairs to his chambers, but I didn't notice. He had an arm about my waist and his lips to my ear, whispering a constant stream of tender words that more than effectively smothered my will. When I realized what was happening, it was far too late; I was standing in the center of Gríma's study, and he was halfway towards the door. "NO!" I shouted, turning about and running towards him.

"Good-bye, Éowyn," he said cheerfully, and slammed and barred the door.

I ran to it and banged on it furiously, but it was too late; he was gone, and I, due to my own weakness, was confined and trapped in an even smaller cage than I had been before.

Cursing Gríma's serpent's tongue, I turned and stalked off to visit Angaran.

*


	6. Chapter 6

Angaran did not seem much better when I went to see him. He was feverish still, his furs kicked to the end of his bed. I covered him many times as I sat by his side, but he only thrust the covers away again, too warm to sleep with them.

I sang to him a little, and talked to him as I sat on the floor beside him. I told him about Faramir's search, and what had been happening in Gondor since he had been gone. I mentioned Aragorn's son, and even talked of my own hopes for a child. I thought I heard Gríma moving about a few times, but every time I called out to ask if he'd returned there was only silence.

Being with Angaran saddened me, and talking to him saddened me more. He could not hear what I had to say of his family; he did not know, really, how Faramir worried for him, how hard Faramir had searched. I told him that Faramir was trying to find him now – trying to find us both. The thought wasn't much comfort. I had little faith that Faramir could find a way into this evil tower; if I could not leave, he and his rangers would not be able to enter either.

I tried to consider other things, deliberately ignoring thoughts of rescue or worse, what I might have to do to leave this place, but it was hard to imagine happier events. The room was hot and lonely, and looking at Angaran only made me feel both impotent and angry.

I had not thought to ask Gríma about food in my fury that morning, and as the afternoon shadows grew long I found myself shaking with hunger. My fingers trembled a little as I tried once more to give Angaran a spoonful of the potion bubbling away on the fire, but to no avail – he would take none of it. Cursing, I threw the remnants back into the pot, despairing. Why were my healing hands failing me? I had trained with the best in Gondor in the Houses of Healing. My teachers had complimented my skill often. But against this disease I could do nothing – only Gríma, it seemed, had any power to fight it.

That made me angrier than anything.

I moved away from the fire and paused a moment to stare at Angaran, one of many times I had done so that day. He was still pale, still shifting uneasily in sleep. There was little more I could do for him. My singing and my tales had not soothed him; my hands only seemed to make things worse. He would not eat, he would not drink – and if I did not leave the room, I would go mad. I departed at last, a headache growing behind my eyes.

I stumbled into Gríma's bedchamber and crawled onto the bed, hoping for rest to fortify me – but sleep would not come. Restless, I finally leapt from bed and chose to explore Gríma's rooms. There was little else for me to do, caged as I was.

Gríma's quarters were made up of six rooms, most of them filled with books and strange-looking vials. The first room seemed to be a chamber of many uses: there was a small table with two chairs; another table nearby with goblets and wooden platters organized neatly atop it; a basin for washing; a long divan, layered with furs and cushions; a few chairs; and of course the ever-present shelves of books. I had never seen so many in my life. I wondered if there were this many books in any other part of the world – they were so rare and precious. I assumed most of them had belonged to Saruman – some of them might even have been written by the wizard.

The second room was Gríma's study. It contained a table, a few chairs, a shelf devoted entirely to scrolls, parchment, quills and ink, and more books. The mysterious wardrobe that contained whatever was most needed or desired was there, too. I suspected Gríma also kept a journal somewhere within the room, but I wasn't interested in looking for it in my first survey.

The third room had more chairs and more books, and two wardrobes. I peeked inside them and found Gríma's clothes – his counsellor's robes and more rough clothing, some with atrocious stitching. He must have made some of them himself, without knowing about the other wardrobe. I touched one of the shirts – clean, surprisingly. I could pull out his stitches and repair them more neatly; I had been stitching since I was a girl. I had repaired many of my brother's torn clothes before, and my cousin's, uncle's, and husband's –

What was I thinking? It was not my responsibility to repair Gríma's clothing, or to help him in any way. He was holding me prisoner; he had betrayed my country, my family – me. Why should I pay him such kindness?

I touched the awful stitching on the shirt again and sighed. I would go mad with no tasks to do in this empty tower. The silence would drive me out of my head. How did Gríma stand it?

I pulled three shirts and a pair of badly botched breeches from the wardrobe and hurried to the next room before I could change my mind.

The fourth room contained still more books, and several tables full of peculiar objects – machines that Saruman must have created. I was uncertain of their uses, but their cold, harsh forms immediately sent a shiver up my spine. The things looked as though they would be used to evil purpose. Then I noticed the collection of herbs and realized they must be used for medicine. Surprised, I moved to examine them more closely. I did not recognize any of the tools from my training, but I supposed that was to be expected. Saruman surely did not use the tools of an ordinary healer.

When I turned away from those tables, I noticed that the opposite end of the room was totally empty, save for a few candles and some buckets. I was immediately suspicious, but too curious to avoid the space. I went to examine the empty area of the room and found a round tub carved directly into the floor. So my lord Gríma did bathe after all – though carrying water up so many steps surely was a painful task.

The fifth chamber was Gríma's bedroom, and the sixth was Angaran's small room. Those I had already seen too much of, so I returned to the first room. I borrowed the empty table as my workspace. I was uncertain where Gríma kept thread, and I assumed he had made it himself – poorly, I guessed. Instead of searching for it, I tried the mysterious wardrobe, and found thread in every color imaginable, along with several perfect bone needles. I picked the shade of thread closest to the color of the first shirt and the best needle, and then set about working.

Though I had always preferred swordplay to ladies' work, sewing had always brought me some small comfort. It was often more challenging than any man believed it could be, and it was a soothing distraction from the harsh reality of the world. When friends surrounded me it was particularly pleasant, but I could do it alone and find almost equal pleasure in it.

Pulling stitches was less enjoyable than regular sewing, but it kept my mind off my troubles, and off the silence that surrounded me. An hour, maybe two slipped by unnoticed as I worked.

I was so involved that I did not notice Gríma until he spoke.

"This is astonishingly domestic of you, my Lady," he said, and when I looked up his eyes were wide with surprise.

I cast him a scornful look and set back to work. "You've been gone a long time," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I did not expect you to miss me."

"This tower… this tower is bleak and full of darkness and silence," I said, frowning at a bad stitch. "I shall run mad without something to do."

"Angaran – "

"I spent all day with him," I said. "It did no good. I do not have your skill, it seems." The words sounded bitter even to my ears.

"It's just this disease," Gríma rushed to assure me. "I am sure you are quite capable with all other illnesses. But how can you be expected to cure something you have never seen or studied?"

"You must have succeeded at just such a task, to keep Angaran alive," I said.

"Saruman had studied the forest plagues," Gríma protested. "I knew of them from him." He paused. "May I inquire as to why you were looking through my things? And what you're doing with my clothes?"

"Repairing some incredibly shoddy work," I replied, smiling. "Sewing is not among your many talents, my lord. I am disappointed."

I looked up in time to see Gríma blush. "I never – men don't – it was never necessary – "

I laughed. "I know, it was never necessary for you to make or repair your clothes," I said, looking down once more. "I understand. I shall have to teach you. You shall have to do better work than this if you want your clothes to last you."

"I would appreciate the lesson," Gríma said ruefully.

I pulled out the final bad stitch and dropped the thread alongside the chair. Grabbing the thread I had removed from the wardrobe, I threaded the needle and put in the first neat stitch. I worked contentedly for a few minutes, momentarily pleased with the presence of another person – even Gríma.

He shifted, and I paused. "I thought you might like a bath," he suggested hesitantly. "You traveled long to find your way here, I am sure, and I imagine you would feel better if you washed away the grime from your journey."

I thought with longing of hot water, soap, and clean hair. "I certainly wouldn't protest," I said, starting up my stitching again. My stitches were neat and precise – my teachers would have been proud. "I was very surprised to find you had a bath. And you keep your herbs to one side of the same room. What are all those devices?"

"They're used for making very specific measurements, and for balancing miniscule amounts," he said. "Handy for some of the more delicate potions of Saruman's, and of my own concocting."

"I'd hate to see what those potions are used for," I said, grimacing.

"You needn't worry; all mine are for lessening pain and dropping fevers," he said. He took a few steps closer to me. When I didn't protest, he came to stand behind me, observing me as I worked. "Your stitches are tiny," he said, awed. "How do you do that?"

"Practice," I said. "A great deal of it. A shirt is easy work after all the gowns I've made." I worked on in silence for a few minutes more. "I suppose if I'm to take a bath I'll need water," I remarked.

"I suppose you will," Gríma said faintly. I glanced up at him. He was staring intently at me, a warm gaze. The adoration there unnerved me. He had become so good at hiding his feelings in the last days of Rohan, only letting them show in several very brief moments. I had forgotten his intensity.

I set down the stitching and stood, walking around him and avoiding his eyes. "Will you need any help?" I asked. "There are many flights of stairs, and water is heavy."

"There's a system for it," Gríma said, following me. "A well at one side of the tower – most useful in case of siege. There's a pulley system that spans the whole tower."

"No magic?"

He laughed. "No magic," he said. "Saruman didn't become so blatant with his use of power until the end. When he was saner, he wrote that overusing magic – and using it frivolously – were signs of an ignorant wielder. Apparently he forgot that in his later days."

I glanced towards the wardrobe. "Evidently," I said. "Will we need the buckets by the tub?"

"There should be a few on the pulley already, but the extras won't hurt."

"And I suppose they'll need to be heated," I added.

"I use magic for that."

I looked over my shoulder. "And I thought only ignorant wielders used magic for frivolous things," I said, biting back a smile.

He grinned. "I would hardly qualify myself as a master wielder," he said. "But only because I prefer using it for simple things."

"Saruman would disapprove," I said.

"Saruman." Gríma said the name disdainfully. "I don't care about Saruman."

"Strange," I said, my smile dissolving. "You used to care very much about him."

Gríma winced. "I was a fool."

"You were a traitor, and a bastard, and a viper," I said coldly.

"I know," he replied in a small voice. "I'm sorry."

I turned away and walked hurriedly through his chambers, storming into the fourth room and grabbing the two buckets there.

"Éowyn…" Gríma said as I passed him.

"Don't," I said. "You have said all you can."

"No, I haven't," Gríma snapped. "You won't let me."

I turned on him. "I know you," I said, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. "When your arguments fail to have any effect you'll resort to your spells and that damned voice."

"I wouldn't have to if you would listen to me," he retorted, bristling.

"And why would I listen to you?" I cried. "My uncle listened to you every day for seven years, and I saw what happened to him! I will not have you do the same to me."

The color drained from Gríma's cheeks. "Never," he gasped. "Never to you."

"Oh, I understand," I spat. "It's perfectly acceptable to attack my uncle, but not me – turning me into an empty shell would be a sin!"

"It was war," Gríma said, fists clenching. "People do terrible things in war."

"So you chose the side that was in the wrong!" I cried. "How could you think it was right, aligning yourself with Saruman?"

"You don't understand," Gríma said, closing his eyes. "You never once saw Saruman or spoke to him. I told you before, if you had met him, you would have changed your mind – even you, my princess, even you could not have fought him. And I am not nearly as strong as you." He opened his eyes and stared at me imploringly. "Every night these many years," he said, "Every night I have dreamt of the battles, your haunted face, your uncle and your cousin. The images from those years, the things I did – they have stayed with me and will not leave me. I am guilty, and you have every right to hate me, but Éowyn… Éowyn…"

He stared at me. The raw emotion burning in his eyes made me shudder. There was pain there as deep as any I had felt, rage and remorse and loss and hate. And over all of it, love. Love so intense I was drawn to it; love so obsessive I wanted to run from it. My heart beat in my throat. My vision blurred, my headache returned and pounded inside my skull, and the room around me spun dizzily. "Oh," I gasped, and let the buckets drop, pressing my hands to my forehead.

"What?" Gríma asked, suddenly concerned. "Éowyn, love, what is it?" He strode across the room and took my hands away from my face, pressing one cool palm to my cheek.

"Oh, my head…" I mumbled. "I haven't eaten today…"

Gríma grimaced. "You haven't, have you?" he said. "I'm so sorry, I had forgotten… I eat so little myself, but you must be starved." He took my arm. "Here, the bath can wait. Sit."

My hands shook as Gríma sat me down in one of the chairs. He rushed away and returned moments later holding an apple. I snatched it from his hand and ate greedily, my hunger overcoming me.

Gríma stood over me, observing me. He laid a hand against my cheek, as though testing me for a fever. I pulled away from him, glaring at him over the apple. He stepped back, surrendering, and opted to converse with me instead.

"Plants have begun to grow here again," he told me. "Saruman once kept very impressive grounds here, beautiful gardens and the like. I've done what I can to cultivate them and return them to their original state. For myself I grow food and herbs mostly."

I had finished the apple. He handed me a slice of very malformed bread. "Obviously my cooking lacks the elegance of the food in Edoras in Minas Tirith," he said apologetically, "But it keeps me alive."

"You can ask for little else from food," I said. I nibbled the bread with more delicacy, embarrassed by how quickly I had devoured the fruit. "It's quite good," I told him. I glanced towards the windows, so high above my head, as I spoke. Daylight was coming through, but it was soft and orange. Night was falling. "Surely Saruman did not keep seeds for gardening here," I said.

Gríma shook his head. "No," he confessed. "I had to ride a long way to the villages in Rohan to get the proper seeds and supplies. I still ride out when my stock runs low, but I have not been able to leave for awhile, with an invalid in my care." He nodded towards Angaran's room. "The people in the villages know me now, I suppose – as an eccentric hermit, of course, and not for who I am."

"And who are you, Gríma son of Gálmód?" I asked quietly.

"I am more than you think," he said.

I took a bite of bread and did not look at him. I could not. He was waiting for me to rise to the challenge, to speak, to demand an explanation. Instead I asked, "How do you purchase your supplies? Did Saruman keep gold here?"

He was distinctly disappointed. "No," he said, disgruntled. "Well, some. But I save it for special needs or wants. Mostly I barter. There is much that is valuable in the tower. And much that is dangerous." He knelt before me, laying his hands on my knees. I lowered the remaining bit of bread and glared imperiously down at him, but he did not move away. "Éowyn, I implore you," he said. "Do not wander too far from these chambers without me there beside you. I can and will lock you here if you cannot remain, but I do not wish to do so."

I arched a brow in what I hoped was regal disdain. "Really?" I said. "I thought it would bring you great joy to have me trapped in your quarters."

"It is for your safety, Éowyn," he insisted. "You will follow those voices again."

I blinked. I had forgotten the voices. No, it wasn't that I had forgotten them – their presence had been masked somehow, had gone to the back of my mind. But they were still there. If I listened closely enough I could still hear them. "I had forgotten them," I said, flicking a stray bit of hair from my shoulder.

"You hadn't," he snapped, "And you won't, not until you leave this tower."

"Then release me."

"No!" He drew in a deep, ragged breath. "We have a bargain, princess," he reminded me. "You do not leave this tower until that bargain is complete."

"You will be fortunate if I do not strangle you before sun sets," I retorted. "I doubt you will see the end of this week alive."

"You could not kill me yesterday, when I gave you every opportunity," Gríma replied. "And you will not kill me before you see that Angaran is improving. You would not risk his life."

I gritted my teeth. He knew me too well – a fact which always disconcerted me. "You have no meat," I said instead of arguing.

"None that is cooked," Gríma said. "I was preparing some when I decided to see how you were faring here. Would you like some?"

I finished the small morsel of bread. "No," I said, brushing his hands off and rising from the chair. "I'm tired. I think I will sleep."

Gríma stood too. "Very well," he said. He paused. "You cried out in your dreams last night."

I stared at him, quizzical. "And what did I say?"

He smiled. "My name," he said.

I frowned. "It was a cry of horror."

"Was it? It sounded quite different to me."

I sniffed. "You hear what you desire," I said, "and not what I desire."

"We'll see," he said, arching both brows. "Sleep long and well, my princess. And may we end the day on better terms tomorrow."

"We will be fortunate if we start the day on good terms, my Lord," I said, biting back a smile.

He grinned. "If I prepare breakfast, will you promise not to argue at least until you finish eating?"

"I will promise," I said. My stomach rumbled eagerly at the thought of food, but I silenced it. Gríma and I had spent enough time together that night. "Good night, my lord," I said, curtsying out of habit.

"Good night, my Lady," he replied, bowing in return.

I stood and hurried out of the room, throwing myself onto Gríma's bed when I arrived in his bedchamber. But I lay there far longer than I had anticipated, considering Gríma's final remark. I had spoken his name? Impossible. He was goading me. I had not dreamt of him, not that I could recall. Had I? Somewhere in my mind I vaguely saw his face and hands, but what did that matter? I had seen him too much in the past days. I had not cried out for him.

I undressed, half-hidden beneath the furs of Gríma's bed lest he decide to observe, and then slid fully beneath the furs. I closed my eyes and drifted slowly into sleep.

The last image I remember seeing, before my mind emptied of all other thoughts, was Gríma, leaning towards me with an eager smile.

*


	7. Chapter 7

I awoke the next morning from a hazy dream, one that left me weak and warm and languid in my furs. But as soon as my eyes opened, the dream was gone, every moment of it. The images that had burned so clearly in my mind's eye were faded wisps, fingers and words and a warmth I clung to but could not place. Groggily I threw aside the furs and stepped onto the floor, gasping sharply at the cold stone against my feet. The cold cleared my head, and the final images that remained from the dream were gone.

I noted that Gríma had left me several gowns from the wondrous wardrobe. I was unsurprised when I noticed the dark blue one among them, thin and smoky and impossibly daring. I pushed that one aside at once. He would never see me in that gown. Never.

My other choices were still fantastic, but they were certainly more modest than the blue dress. He had left me a forest green gown with draping gold sleeves, slit open to expose my arms; the pure white gown he had given me the day previous; and another white gown that was very simple, a clean shift with no sleeves and a small silver cord at the waist. I had never seen anything quite like it – it appeared almost to belong beneath a gown, but it was too beautiful to be hidden beneath another garment. I chose this final gown for the day. It was simplest, and its uniqueness attracted me.

While I belted the cord at my waist, I left Gríma's bedchamber and went to his study, where I assumed he would still be. He did not disappoint; he was there, laying out an elaborate spread of food on the small, empty table where I had down my sewing previously. He paused when I entered the room and looked me over from head to toe. I shouldn't have been surprised by his boldness, but in his days at court he had been far more cautious. Here in his tower, he feared nothing – not even my wrath, it seemed.

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. "Are you quite finished?" I questioned when his eyes finally met mine again.

He bowed. "For the moment," he said, grinning. "You look splendid, my Lady. Truly, you are fairest in white. It is no marvel that our people chose to call you the White Lady."

"I am not in the mood for your flattery, snake," I muttered, storming past him.

"Indeed?" He followed me, still grinning. "Then tell me, fair one, why is there a blush tinting your lovely cheeks?"

I turned on him, eyes narrowed. "You are unusually bold today, sir," I said. "Why so overeager?"

"I believe you gave me a solemn promise last night that you would not argue with me until you'd finished your meal," he said, smirking, "And I intend to take full advantage of the time where you can say nothing to contradict me."

"Contradiction is not argument!" I protested.

He held up a finger. "You're arguing, sweeting," he said.

I sulked, tossing my head at the endearment. "I will eat fast," I said.

"Oh, but you won't. This is only the first part of your breakfast."

I stared at the spread in awe. The entire table was covered in food – fruits, meats, breads, teas and ale. "You jest," I said.

"I don't. Sit." He pulled back a chair for me, and I sat reluctantly.

He reached across the table and pulled a strawberry from a platter of fruit. "Taste this," he said. "These are some of the best I've seen."

He held it to my lips, but the indignity of eating out of his hand was too much for me. I plucked the berry from his fingers and ate it myself. It was admittedly delicious. "Yes, very good," I said grudgingly.

He reached for one more. "Have another," he said, holding it out to me.

I pulled that one from his hand, too. "Are you determined to feed me from your palm? I am no child."

"Indeed you are not, and I do not see you as such," he said.

"I am aware of it," I said. "But do not treat me like a mare to whom you may feed apples when she is well-behaved. I am perfectly capable of feeding myself."

Disappointed, he stood and stepped away from my chair. He circled around the table and sat directly across from me, staring steadily at me as I took a peach. "If you find yourself devoid of any task today," he began, "You are free to seek me out. I shall be here mostly, and with Angaran."

"Being in that room crushes my spirit," I said. I paused guiltily. "How is Angaran?" I asked.

"Improving slightly, but the changes are very small," Gríma said, discouraged. "I had hoped his improvements would be greater when I awoke. He did speak to me a little, in feverish dreams."

"What did he say?" I asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Something about Faramir," Gríma said, eyes narrowing. His lip curled, and an ugly gleam came into his eye. He had never met the man, and already he hated him – simply because I called him husband. How could anyone be so possessive of someone he could not call his own? "Do you love him, Éowyn?"

"Faramir?" I asked, unsettled. "Of course. He is a good man."

"Tell me why you love him."

I paused, staring at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Tell me why you love him," Gríma insisted. "Tell me all about him. Describe him to me. I want to see the man who claims you as his wife. I want to understand why it is he who shares your bed and not me."

"He did not betray kin and country, for one," I said crossly.

"We are not speaking of me, but of him," Gríma said. "Go on, tell me about him."

I hesitated. What could I say of Faramir that Gríma would not already know? "He is kind," I said, "And his people love him. He is everything a son of Gondor should be; the proud line of Numenor can still be seen in him. He fights to defend his people, and they respect the work he does. He holds the close counsel of the king – "

"You are telling me about your husband's public face," Gríma interrupted. "And what of the man himself? Tell me."

I blinked. I had just begun to warm to my subject. What could he possibly mean? "We met at the Houses of Healing," I said, uncertain. "We – "

"That's not about him."

I glared at Gríma, frustrated. "I don't understand."

Gríma tapped his fingers atop the table. "You speak of him as though he were a stranger, some acquaintance you have at court and about whom you occasionally hear gossip," he said. "Whereas if I asked you to describe me, you would launch into a detailed description of my character and personal traits."

"You would not be flattered," I said.

I was surprised when Gríma smiled. "I doubt it not," he said. He studied me a few moments as I ate a bit of meat – it had been long since I had eaten anything so filling. "You've made me curious," he said finally. "I want to know how you would describe me."

"I assure you, you don't," I said, taking another bite of meat.

"Go on," Gríma insisted.

I raised an eyebrow. "You'll regret it," I warned.

"I regret much heavier things than so simple a request," he said scornfully. "Loose your wrath upon me, princess. Give me your most detailed, angry impressions of me. I want to know."

I finished chewing and looked at him levelly, debating. Finally I decided he deserved exactly what he'd asked for. "You are a bastard," I began – and was startled when he smiled. "A bitter, cowardly, lonely bastard who cannot let go of the past," I continued, more forcefully. "You are and always will be angry at the people of Rohan for whatever crimes you hold against them from your youth."

A list of qualities began dancing across my mind, and I spoke rapidly, heat rising in my face as words spilled from my lips. "You are stubborn and want everyone to believe you don't give a damn what they think – but certain people's opinions matter to you more than you'd care to admit, and you will always, _always_ try to impress them. You hate your father because he produced you with a woman not of Rohan. You would rather hide from the sun and hide away in the company of your scrolls and dusty pages than spend any time with the other men of Rohan riding horses or fighting with swords. You love the things you cannot have – namely me – and you idealize them far beyond what is reasonable. You constantly live under the shadow of what you did in the War of the Ring, and it is a shadow you will never escape. Your name is tainted, and you are alone." I paused, studying him. He looked pained and immeasurably sad. "You have always been alone," I said softly.

He lowered his gaze. "And?"

I leaned forward a little. "You are quick to anger," I continued, "And you do not forgive easily. You hate crowds and people because you fear rejection, and your seemingly aloof behavior usually earns you the rejection you so fear. So far as I can tell you are afraid all the time. You are clever and quick-witted, and you have a gift with words." I dropped my gaze. "I once believed you loved words more than you could ever love me."

"I have never loved anything as I love you," he said, voice hoarse.

"So you proclaim," I murmured. "But I doubt. You love your life and safety more than you love me or the words you use so freely."

"Is that why you think I chose Saruman?"

I looked up once more. "Yes," I said certainly.

He shook his head. "He told me he would kill you," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

He nodded. "He showed me a vision," he told me. "It was… the most horrifying thing I have ever seen."

"So you chose my life over thousands of others?" I demanded, temper flaring.

"I loved you!" he spat, slamming a fist on the table. "You were more to me than words, than kingdom, than life. And I thought, then, that there was still a chance – because there was a chance then, as you yourself have told me. Even though you had turned cold, even though you had begun to hide from me, I had hope." He sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "It wasn't like you think," he said.

"You don't know what I think," I said.

"You believe Saruman came to me and immediately laid out his plans for Rohan," Gríma retorted. "You think I accepted at once. You think I understood what I was doing."

"How could you not?" I cried. "Do not cast the blame on ignorance! You are clever. You must have known."

He shook his head. "A few tasks, Saruman told me – that was all," he insisted. "A few simple tasks. They were easy enough for a king's counsellor – a word here, a change of guards there. I could not see the full design." He began to look agitated, shifting in his chair, his leg bouncing restlessly. "But you grew colder, your brother and cousin crueler, and the court hated me as it always had for being the other. And Saruman came to me with larger tasks, and prodded all those places where I hurt the most. First it was you he promised me – do these few things, he said, and she will see you for what you are." He laughed bitterly. "I suppose you did see, didn't you? And that is why we're here today. Because you saw my weakness and recognized the terrible things that I would do."

My heart pounded hard in my chest. I could not meet his eyes. I sincerely believed for a moment that if I looked directly at him, my heart would shatter. I did not want to hear this. I did not want to think of it this way, but it was easy now to see the transition that I had previously chosen to forget. I remembered a befuddled Gríma, quiet and brooding and uncertain. I remembered odd commands and eccentric requests, things that had made no sense that suddenly clicked into place. Yes, I could see this period that he described – this time in which he had not known. I saw it with such clarity that I wondered briefly if he was using the voice, but the tone was his own.

"A few tasks?" I repeated meekly.

"That was all I agreed to at the start," Gríma said, nodding. "And then a few more – seemingly harmless, things that weren't difficult. The first time I saw the full design was the day your brother and I fought."

I flinched. I remembered that fight. It had been one of the most ugly fights I had ever seen – Gríma and Éomer, screaming insults at one another and eventually coming to blows, even though they were in the open. They had stood on the porch of Meduseld and they had finally revealed their hatred. I remembered my uncle diving between them, tearing them apart and scolding them for behaving like adolescent boys even as they both bled all over him.

I think they might have stopped then, perhaps even moved beyond their hatred, had I not run to Gríma first when they were separated. I had been avoiding him for months then, trying to heed the advice of my brother and cousin, but my heart went out to him – I had heard the things my brother had said to him. Worm, he had screamed. Pig. Weakling. Bastard. And the worst: half-breed. That had set Gríma on him at last. I had never seen the counsellor in such a rage. In those moments I felt acutely the cruelty of the world to both him and me, and I had run to him first. And when Théodred saw, he was enraged. He yanked me away and spat, "No half-breed will ever touch my cousin!"

And then Gríma had set on Theodred in fury, and I, caught in the middle, had fought them both off. My uncle tore them apart finally, but he could not stop Gríma from snarling at us, "What care I for the ignoble insults of straw-heads, men who would sooner lay with horses than their women? You are no better than your dogs."

His eyes had landed on me, had held my gaze for a few moments. I had hoped for an apology, a kind word. "Straw-head," he growled instead, and stormed away.

It was later that day that Gríma kissed me, when I was sent by my uncle to see how he was recovering. It had been awkward, of course. A long silence, a sudden and fervent apology spoken in words so elegant I could not possibly have rejected them.

He had been bleeding. I, noticing, had bent over him, a wet cloth in my hand, intending to dab away the blood from his lip – and suddenly he had a hand buried in my hair at the back of my head. He pulled my mouth down to his and kissed me frantically, nearly dragging me into his lap. I tasted his blood in my mouth and felt a whirl of things I did not understand – the blossoming of desires I could not name, not then.

Before, when my mother had died, I had resented her for sickening out of longing for a man, a man who was always gone riding and who spent more time training my brother than paying attention to me. I loved both of my parents, but as my mother grew weaker and weaker I questioned her constantly. What use was it, dying over a man who was gone? How could anyone burn so for any other being?

But I burned then. I burned. And simultaneously I saw my mother, weak and sick, abandoning me to the caprice of the cruel world because she could not survive without my father.

I could not bear it. I pulled my head from his grip, dropped the cloth into the basin on the table, and fled.

I was but fifteen then, a girl barely old enough to claim womanhood. He was a man, several years my senior. He understood and longed for that heat, that need that passed between man and woman, but I had no grasp of men's desires – or my own. His desire frightened me, but not nearly as much as my own hunger. So I had run from him, and I had stayed well and truly away. I had numbed myself.

And this was what had come from that misunderstanding, from our fear and anger and miscommunication. We sat now at a table staring at one another, and I could not begin to understand all the things I felt.

"I remember," I whispered finally.

He smiled mirthlessly. "So I see," he said. He paused. "I was… tactless, with that kiss. I apologize."

I laughed a little. "If only you had apologized years ago," I said.

"If only." He sighed. "I was angry with the unfairness of the world. It is not an excuse, but it is why I did what I did. I suppose I wanted to prove to myself that your cousin was wrong – that you could, in fact, love me, even if he did not want it to be so. Instead I drove you away."

I shrugged. "I was young," I said. "You expected more of me than I was able to give you."

"I know. I'm sorry." He reached out for my hand. Slowly, uncertainly, I gave it to him. He held my fingers loosely in his, staring intently into my face. "That night Saruman came to me with a potion," he said. "He told me it was a small thing to give to your uncle – he did not specify what it did. I was alarmed, and I asked what it was. Saruman would not tell me, but he insisted the dose he held would have little effect. He said it was to be my vengeance against Théodred and Éomer for what they had said and done. And then he spoke of you, and spoke of your uncertainty and fear. He told me I had driven you away – I did not believe him at first – and that through him was the only means to both protect and win you. He was… most persuasive. I accepted what he said as truth, and I gave your uncle the potion. And when I understood what it was doing to him, it was too late… he was in Saruman's control, and I would be killed – or worse, you would be destroyed – if I revealed what had happened. So I accepted my role and did whatever was asked of me."

"You were a fool," I said.

"I was weak," he agreed. "And I am the sorrier for it." He closed his fingers more tightly over mine, stroking my skin with his thumb. "But you must understand, no matter the things I did or said, I always loved you. I still love you."

I hesitated. What could I say to him? My feelings whirred like angry hornets driven from their nest. They pricked at me inside, leaving painful welts wherever they stung. "I will try to accept that," I said finally.

"That is all I ask." He squeezed my hand. Blushing, I pulled my fingers away. He left his hand where it was. "You still haven't told me about your husband," he said.

For some reason, it was easier to talk of the past than my present. "Why do you want to hear about him?" I demanded. "Will that not cause you more pain?"

"I need to know you love him," Gríma said matter-of-factly.

I crossed my arms and looked away. "What does it matter to you what I feel for my husband?" I asked.

He stared at me. "I will not see you lost to an unhappy marriage," he said grimly. "I will not permit it."

"You cannot permit anything regarding my marriage!" I cried. "It is my decision whom I wed and stay wed to!"

"And it is my decision whether or not you leave this tower," Gríma replied. His serenity infuriated me. "Now, tell me: do you love him?"

I sniffed. "Of course I do."

"Then tell me about him. Describe him. Paint me a picture with words. That is how this began; remember?"

I rubbed my arms, uncertain. "I have not your gift for words, my lord."

"I think you will find the proper ones, if you love him."

I sighed. What could I say of Faramir that I had not already attempted? "He… he is devoted," I began. "And he is good and honorable. He loves to talk of me, telling of my defeat of the Witch King in the war." I smiled a little. "He wants me to laugh more," I said. "He does everything he can to make me smile. He treats me kindly and cares greatly for me." My smile fled, replaced by a concerned frown. "But his strongest devotion is to his country, to Gondor and its people, and thus he is always gone. I sometimes think he's still trying to prove himself to his father, even though his father perished in the war."

"So you are alone," Gríma said with a nod.

"No!" I glared at him. "He comes home as often as is permitted. And I traveled with him on this journey."

Gríma arched a brow. "Did he offer to let you travel with him?"

I looked down sullenly. "I asked," I said.

"I see." Gríma folded his hands and leaned forward, setting his chin on his locked fingers. He stared unblinking into my face, even though I would not look at him. "And what of those journeys where you have not asked to join him? What do you do when he is not at home?"

I bit my lip. "I do my duty," I said.

"I see," he said again. "You entertain, you run a household – all the appropriate duties of a princess."

I set my jaw defiantly. "It is not so bad a life."

"But it is not what you wanted."

"And how would life have been different for me, had I married you?" I demanded, glaring at him.

"You would have been free to continue your swordplay," Gríma said at once. "You would have been permitted to ride to war if you so desired."

"And if we had had children?"

I realized at once that even suggesting the idea had been a poor decision. His face lit up at once, and he smiled – a genuine smile. The thought apparently delighted him. "I assume you would want to care for your own children," he said, voice distant, "And I would have assisted you there." The smile faded, turning to a dark grimace. "Have you any children?"

I shook my head slowly. My barrenness in my three years of marriage concerned me greatly, and though Faramir had said nothing of it I knew it worried him too.

"You are troubled," Gríma said.

"Obviously," I snapped. I drew in a deep breath. "It will be fine. It's only that he's not home often enough – "

"He neglects you."

I bristled. "He's important," I said.

"Surely an important man can demand some time to be with his wife," Gríma replied. "Won't his people respect his wishes?"

"For staying with a straw-head?" I stopped and winced, looking away. I had not meant to share my bitterness, but as usual Gríma had successfully coaxed out of me what troubled me most.

"Ah," he murmured, "So that's it. You are not of noble blood like Faramir, and while the people of Gondor love the Rohirrim as friends, they certainly do not want their favored steward wedded to one."

"They do not credit us with any dignity," I said angrily. "Even Faramir sometimes treats my brother and I as though we were children. Aragorn at least respects and admires us, but…" I paused, shrugged uncomfortably, and reached for another strawberry. "It's unimportant," I said, taking a bite of the fruit. Its taste bubbled in my mouth, momentarily distracting me. "These are delicious. Where do you get them?"

"I grow them," Gríma said. "Éowyn, surely the people of Gondor must admire you for destroying the Witch King."

I reached for a slice of bread. "You have no butter or cheese," I said instead of responding.

"I don't happen to have a cow or goat or any other animal that produces the milk necessary for such food," he said, irritated. "You are also an esteemed friend of their king; surely they must respect you for that?"

"You have no eggs, either," I said.

He snorted in disgust. "Your sudden interest in your food is most surprising," he said. "Very well, princess; if you cannot bear to share any more of your pain with me, I will stop inquiring."

"It isn't your business, anyway," I said, licking juice from my fingers.

"And yet you told me much of it quite readily," he noted.

"You have that effect on everyone," I snapped. "You're too easy to speak with, and that's how you stole every secret you ever used against the courtiers in Meduseld."

He held out his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Is it my fault if I am naturally a good listener?"

"Yes," I said, rising. "I'm through eating. I think I will tend to some of your atrocious sewing, if you are willing to leave me in peace."

"You have hardly eaten," Gríma protested, also rising. He circled around the table to grab my hands. "Éowyn, love, I did not mean to anger you with my questions. I only wondered if you were happy."

"It is not my lot to be happy," I retorted. "It never has been. Why should that change now?"

"I could change it for you."

"I assure you, you could not." I tugged one hand free, but he clung desperately to the other. "Gríma, really," I said, tugging at my hand. "I have work to be done. Will you leave me be?"

He sighed. "For the moment," he acquiesced, finally dropping my hand. He did not look ready to end the conversation, so I waited.

"Éowyn," he began, a few seconds later, "whatever you think of me and however much you resent me, I thank you for the conversation, and for sharing so much of yourself with me, whether or not you intended to. I have missed you, and being with you – with someone clever and intelligent and conscious – is more of a pleasure than you realize. And if we could talk again, I would much appreciate it."

I turned my back on him. "We will see," I said.

*


End file.
